Winter Prince
by Cryysis
Summary: [AU TyKa] This is the story of a Prince who knows nothing of what he shall encounter and what he shall face as the Kings daughter bears a son who, if he lives, shall be King. Plots form, alliances made and stakes are high. The hunt begins.


Serenity: This is my newest story, Winter Prince. Elizabeth E. Wein wrote the original, so the story itself is not mine, but this revision is.

Taka: -reads through- Not bad.

Kai: I can't believe this…

Tyson: Least its not plagiarism.

Kai: Still though…

Serenity: Anyways, I don't own Beyblade or any of the likeness, and I don't own this story.

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**Winter Prince**

A young boy was seated on a stone floor, with his head resting on his knees and flames licking at the brick of the fireplace behind him as he anxiously watched the old man before him. He was hidden in shadows, and even though it was a far to warm a night to be so close to the fire, he didn't move. He didn't want his face to be visible to the old man, and the promised safety of the darkness kept him close.

He was a different kind of child: slightly muscular with a heavily controlled grace, his blood red eyes blank and unreadable, with dual colored hair, the front bangs a dark gray and the back a black, midnight sky. His looks frightened people; giving him an uncanny strength, but not now. Several times the words that he thought scrambled and unscrambled in his mind, until he finally gathered the strength to ask quietly, "Now that your daughter has had her own child, will I go back to my grandfather?" His voice was cold and uncaring; yet it held a sense of wisdom that most did not posses. He knew that the old man had been waiting for him to ask.

"Do you want to?" the older man asked, leaning forward slightly so he could see the boy more clearly.

The boy gave a silent shrug, while inside his small mind he was thinking that his grandfather wouldn't want him back now, because he'd become soft.

"When you were first brought here, the decision was made by your grandfather and myself that you would stay. Yet now, you are old enough to decide that for yourself."

The boy asked. "What do you want me to do?"

"I would prefer you stay," was the old mans reply.

"So I don't become like him?"

He hadn't meant to speak out loud. He gripped his knees tightly, continuingly telling himself that he was vile and demonic with his dual hair an blood red eyes.

"No, young one," the man answered patiently. "I know that you will not become like him, and do not believe that I will care for you any less because of my grandson."

"Yet he is your true grandson," The boy finished what the old man would not say, and hearing himself speak it only made him feel more disgusting.

"He is very small," the old man continued. "It is doubtful he will live. If he dies, you remain and still are the eldest, no matter the circumstances. In name alone, yes, you are of less importance. But in wisdom and strength you can make yourself to be far more superior to anyone you wish."

The child said nothing. The older mans words were soft, unquestioning and unaccusing, but he couldn't figure out a way to answer them. He didn't want to make the old man apologize for the second grandsons that he'd wanted ever sense the death of his first.

The air from the window was cool and filled with moisture, occasional stars glimmering through far off, wispy clouds. He felt as if he was burning alive, and he would have liked to lean out the window and let the cool spring air wash over him, but his thoughts swarmed through his head in heated strokes, like lightening in a storm. He didn't move, for fear of striking something if he did so. He stayed quiet for a time before speaking again. "My Lord, I don't want your grandson to die," he stated, not sure that he meant it, but knowing that the man would want to hear it. "You don't have to excuse him to me. He has far more right to be born then I do to live."

"All who are born have a right to be," was the old mans intent reply. "But for your own sake, I apologize. We all believed and told you that she couldn't bear anymore children, even she thought she couldn't."

"And now she has given birth to another son." was the boys indifferent reply, yet he was thinking; I wonder how she feels? He had grown to like the woman, kind and caring, yet stubborn and quick to laugh. She spoke openly and directly, meant nothing more then what she said and spoke only what she meant. She was so different from his grandfather, who spoke only in mysteries and demanding tones, letting up on nothing and never relenting.

The old man called his name gently before saying, "You mustn't be angry with her."

"I'm not." he replied, and silently added: She isn't the one who threatens me. It's her son, the one who may not be strong enough to survive. Yet my Lord, you are as much to blame as she is.

He felt torn and broken. He didn't want to be in the older mans house, belonging in no way except for being the grandson of the man who saved the King's life. Yet even then he didn't really belong then either. Throughout the burning thoughts in his head, he quite suddenly thought, I'm sleepy.

The man spoke again. "My boy, it shall be quite a while before he shall be a threat to you. He can't walk, talk, or think."

"Not yet he isn't." was his seemingly cold reply.

The man suddenly stood, and laid a gentle, heavy hand on the young boys shoulder, making him look towards the burning light. "When you are of age, I will make sure that you receive the chance to prove and challenge yourself," he remarked. "Wait eight, ten years. Then you may do as you wish, whether it be to serve me, travel, return to your grandfather in Flame Isles. Or, when you've done all that, you may stay here. You can all ways stay here. Just wait. By then you shall be a young adult, and the boy will still be a child. You shall have no need to envy him, and I'm not asking you to love him. I only ask that you wait before you decide to hate him."

The boy stared at him with a blank expression. Behind his masked eyes and gray lashes, he thought distantly, That's true-- he's to young to fear or envy. He'd never felt strongly enough to hate or love something.

Yet when he thought of the little boy, the old mans only and most important grandchild, an unrecognizable feeling burned through him. He didn't know if it was hate or love or possibly both, or maybe something completely different from them. Though it was true that the boy was barely four weeks old and the smallest human being he'd ever seen; but in that tanned face were blue eyes so dark and radiant that it scared him. He'd never seen anything more beautiful then the eyes of the small boy, but he couldn't tell if that beauty was attractive or repulsive, wonderful or hideous.

As he thought about it, he was caught off guard by a fleeting, yet amazingly vivid image of how the smaller boy had suddenly grasped one of his fingers with his own unthinkably small ones, blindingly trusting and certain. He looked up at the old man and said in a quiet voice, "I'll try to love him. You saw me take his hand."

"Be accurate, my young phoenix," the old man smiled. "He took yours."

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"_All who are born have a right to be,"_

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Serenity: That's it for the Prologue. Like it, hate it, love it? Review!


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